My name is Nadia Marn. I was so lucky to be around my Grandfather when I was little.
This is a series of stories about a fictional boy, Bozo, of undetermined age. Around five years old. He is free to be himself in daycare. He is free to explore his relationship with authority and to challenge it. He is free to roam the farm he lives on. He is confronted with the reality of his life and retreats into imagination.
I want to be Bozo. Yes, I am not a boy, but I struggled to write this for a girl character. I simply could not place a girl and her upbringing in the context of farm life in the rolling hills of Slovenske Gorice. I did not want to deal with real problems such as alcoholism, abuse, or poverty, as children should be shielded from this. Instead, I saw this as an opportunity to create a safe space for any child, protected by Father, Mother, Grandfather, Teacher Jožica, the Janitor (Mister Mopster, or Hišnik Smetišnik which rhymes in Slovenian and refers to “smeti”, waste), Great Dane Ruby, and Ferdo the Goat.
This is also a tribute to my Grandfather. Anyone who knows us will recognize his farm, his animals, his house, but also our family dog Ruby, and stories told by my Father. My Grandfather always took time for us, his grandchildren. There are many of us. My Grandfather and my Grandmother had a very loose way of counting offspring. Some of us were born to his children. And some grandkids came with their parents. His generation remembers the loss of life in WWII. When it was more important to be alive than to be family. So families grew out of love and out of need, not only out of blood.
My Grandfather has a great sense of humor. He laughs when playing cards. Once he laughed so hard as he bluffed my Father during a game by showing a Jack and pretending it was a King. But he enjoyed most telling stories about Bozo.
These stories lost their charm around when we were around ten. As there are many of us, well distributed over the years, there was always someone laughing at funny sounds, unexpected twists, and magical outcomes. When it was my turn to graduate from Bozo’s world, I collected a few stories and printed them. Someone stored them digitally.
I found them a year back. And got sad. My Grandfather no longer had a captivated audience. He was also older. But this world, the world of Bozo, the world of a free-spirited five-year-old marauding around in search of beauty and bounty, should be preserved. So I decided to take them digital now, to make them accessible to those who do not understand why holes in a tree need to be poked before inserting a hand (hornets), why each axe blow to the wood must be done afresh (vibrations), and why on a downhill drive the clutch should never be pressed on a tractor (hell of a ride). And, of course, to all kids, of all ages.
I tried to preserve my Grandfather’s authentic Styrian/Maribor dialect, his laughter, his love, and his imagination.
As there is no question in my mind: this time and age needs a human touch. My Grandfather’s touch.
As I want to be Bozo. And so will you.
Enjoy.
Nadia